It hid in the creases of my story books, nibbling away at the stanzas,
Chewing across the pages as I, just a tike, lay at night.
It sat on my window and sill and waited for years to pass.
For knowledge to seep into my skull.
For artistry to dance upon my heart.
For energy to run through my fingers.
It waited.
It waited with a patience.
A fiery patience.
Through the months it grew bigger, feasting upon comics, novels, and plays.
Steaming, sizzling, bubbling pages of literature, it gorged itself with.
No longer was it quiet at my window sill.
No longer did it hide under book covers.
No longer was it satisfied with plain words.
It needed more.
It wanted more.
It crawled beside my bed as I, so young, lay at night.
Its voice was a mutter,
a whisper,
a hush.
"My hunger can't be pleased with such measly things," it said.
Its chops dribbled on his wings.
"I want something spicy, something pleasing, that goes down nicely."
It plead with yellow yearning eyes.
It was now a monster, of enormous size!
I realized I was rhyming, and I just couldn't stop.
The creature, it possessed me!
My world spun, racing wildly, like a top.
I knew I had to write,
before it consumed me in all its delight.
The pen and paper called my name.
The nerve endings lit my brain.
The lights flickered, and I was to blame
for this beast that pranced so wildly inside my mind,
inside my soul,
and inside my writing that had been redesigned.
The words came without a thought,
without a concern,
no sentence forgot.
I cooked the words its stomach desired
that would hopefully fuel the fire
that steered its hunger.
I fell to the floor with a thud and a crook,
as I passed it the paper
It gave me a look.
It sniffed it.
Licked it.
And nodded its head,
and with a loud booming voice it said,
"Hereby today I will not stand meritocracy,
for I love this new food that has an- electricity.
Keep writing,
Keep cooking up a storm,
feed me in any shape or form.
And what ever I chew,
In any color, in any hue,
make sure its delicious,
or else I'll
eat you.
So with that to this very day,
I write to please the monster in my brain
 in every single way.
It drives me to strive for more,
to imagine, not as I did before,
but to rise,
to conquer,
to soar.